


Drabbles

by thispieisworthit (lils_in_wonderland)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:56:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4418399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lils_in_wonderland/pseuds/thispieisworthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freewrite drabbles about nothing in particular</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

          Abuse was always red.

          It's angry crimson lines scratched across the skin of another, a bloody lip, a stop sign ignored.

          Red is the color of a good time gone wrong, a playful fight, a passionate kiss, a drive down the street to visit your lover.

          I, like many others, expected red abuse, raw red. The kind that ends up plastered on a movie poster and sold as an exciting, lust filled relationship, a slap to the face, a yell, a shout. Abuse was loud too, it just screamed and screamed and screamed.

   When abuse came to me it was blue. Cornflower blue eyes, translucent and eager, that paired with a smirk like chardonnay and a spinach terrine. Abuse was as naive as robin's egg. It was as incessant as the aching Kansas sky. But mostly, mostly abuse was silent


	2. Birds

Children eat.

Children sigh.

Children scoop up the corn meal from the crevices in their swollen stomachs and gobble.

Choke the grit down,

The endless cycle of reaching far down inside your gut.

They smear it on their faces thinking that's how the grown ups will notice.

The alarms hopefully ringing playfully in their ears,

"It's time for class, hello my darlings!".

Covered in shame and fear

And something so repulsive that the sea itself rejected them.

Under the flesh and the blood and food of crass

Lay the broken birds

Inside the periwinkle shells of their dreams,

Waiting for dinner.


	3. Crimson

The room contrasted to my own, long and narrow with only one window, large enough to let us feel at home.

My mother sat on a small stool in the corner of the room, barely big enough to support her large girth.

I stayed standing and walked over to the window, tapping my fingers against the cold glass fogged with condensation. The finger prints slowly faded away as the fog retracted into my mouth. They would return again to another like me in this room who breathed their last breaths on this window and saw them as a shimmering mirage from the other side because they knew my fate.

My heart beat increased, as I looked toward the door, the only escape. Doors were a given, one could not be without them, they were the gate that shut you out.

White plastic covered in gloss, sterile as the antiseptic that had stung my left arm this morning, the door was not a gate but a prison wall, through the door was the hallway and I was better off in the room.

Suddenly, my mother stands, her long auburn hair swinging behind her, a flash of crimson on her left arm. Her hand feels warm and soothing on my face as she kisses my cheek, it is almost time.

I hear a scream pierce through the silent air.

Grabbing my hand my mother steadies herself for the task ahead. I look out the window one last time hoping to glimpse the pipes of the grey factory, but instead find dirt rocketing past the glass as we sink into the ground. On my left arm the ribbon peaks out of my sleeve, its forked tongue licking my skin. Seamlessly, the door slides open, I see crimson.


End file.
